Tormenters and Teenaged Logic
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Oneshot. Teenchester. Sam Winchester is ambushed by a couple of bullies while walking home from school. Sam is 13, Dean is 17.


Written for "Awesome" at SFTCOL(AR)S. She wanted a teenchester Limp!Sam story for her birthday. Rated T for some swearing.

* * *

Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply. I, unfortunately, own nothing relating to Supernatural. 

**Tormenters and Teenaged Logic**

By: Vanessa Sgroi

The dismissal bell rang and Sam Winchester sighed in relief as he gathered his history book and homework assignment from his desk. A headache had been lurking just behind his eyes for the duration of this last class, and he was simply happy it was over so he could head home. It was Thursday, the one day of the week he had to walk home because his brother, Dean, worked for a couple of hours after he got out of school. Sam liked Thursdays because Dean always brought some sort of take-out home for dinner, saving them from having to cook. This was always a blessing whether their father was home or on a hunt. This Thursday, Dad was away on a hunt, and Sam was really hoping Dean's treat of choice was pizza—a pizza with double cheese and pepperoni. Though with his luck, Dean would get the thing loaded with onions, which Sam would have to pick off. At least his brother didn't like anchovies. That would be way worse.

After stopping at his locker to grab his jacket and the rest of the books he needed, the youngest Winchester hurried toward the front doors lost in thought. The books in his arms were awkward, but his old backpack had worn out, and Dad hadn't yet bought him a new one. Feeling the throb in his head intensify as he descended the steps at the front of the school, Sam decided to take a certain shortcut home, even though both Dad and Dean had warned him against doing so numerous times. He just wanted to get home as fast as possible.

Sam walked down to the corner and jaywalked across the deserted intersection. Once across the street, he trudged along the diagonal dirt path worn into the weedy, trash-strewn field not far from the junior high school.

The attack came out of nowhere. Sam, thirteen years old and still small and scrawny for his age, wasn't expecting the ferocious fist that slammed into his face. He had no time to set himself, to attempt an initial defense, and he went down—hard—his school books and papers flying in every direction.

Gasping, trying to regain the breath he'd lost impacting with the ground, Sam squinted through his rapidly swelling right eye to see the fury-scrunched face of Todd Trammel hovering over him. Todd—one of several well-known bullies in Southmore Junior High—had never bothered hassling Sam much before; therefore, this attack was completely inexplicable to the youngest Winchester.

Sam saw Todd begin another swing at his face and was able to roll out of the way in time to avoid the punch. Unfortunately, missing the second fist was his only bit of luck as Trammel's sneaker-shod foot connected with his side. Sam groaned but managed to scramble first to his hands and knees, then his feet. Hearing a wild cackling laugh to his left, Sam turned his head and caught the briefest glimpse of Todd's best friend and fellow bully, Marcus Bent, doubled over and laughing his butt off. The younger teen had tangled with Marcus several times when the other kid tried to steal his lunch money.

_Ah, crap._

Turning his attention back to his attacker, Sam ducked under another hastily thrown punch. "T-Todd, w-what—"

"Shut up, asshole."

"But—"

"I said shut up. YOU don't get to speak." As the bully spoke, he moved in close to Sam, fists flying, knuckles making bloody contact wherever they landed. Trammel's face was full of irrational hatred, underscored by an unhealthy dose of arrogance.

While Sam's hunter's training kicked in and he was able to avoid some of the blows and even give back several of his own, but he couldn't avoid them all. His gangly limbs induced uncoordinated, unavoidable clumsiness, allowing Todd's fists to connect repeatedly with heavy-handed thunks to Sam's face and stomach.

"So you think it's funny to fuck with me, Winchester? Think it's funny to key my car? Too steal my money? Where is it?"

One particularly vicious blow sent Sam to his knees. With a nasally, wet wheeze, the younger boy stammered, "I-I-I don't . . ."

"Where the hell's my money, asshole? I know you stole it."

Before Sam was able to regain his feet; Todd tackled him hard and wrapped his hands around his throat. Sam could hear the crackling of dry grass under his body as he thrashed. His vision began to gray out as the bigger, broader teen cut off his air.

Suddenly, Marcus called out, "Shit! Todd, I think somebody's coming. We gotta go!"

Trammel let go of Sam's neck and crawled off his prone body.

"This ain't over, dumbass. You'll be even sorrier next time."

Standing, the bully let one final kick fly before hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it at Sam. The thick greenish-yellow gob landed on the other teen's forehead, in his bangs. Todd would have laughed if Marcus hadn't been pulling him away. The two bullies took off running, not once looking back.

Sam groaned and slowly rolled over, rising painfully to his hands and knees. The roaring in his ears gradually subsided, and he finally heard the noise that had presumably scared his attackers away—a rustling from some scrubby, overgrown bushes off to his left. Sam tensed, his foggy mind conjuring all kinds of possibilities at the sound.

He watched as a huge dog, the color of butterscotch pudding, lumbered from the undergrowth and approached with an oddly happy look on its intelligent-looking face. The dog stopped right in front of Sam and chuffed softly.

"Hey, boy—I-I think you saved my life." The grateful teenager reached out an unsteady hand and patted the dog's head. "Thanks."

The dog whined and lapped his tongue over Sam's bruised cheek.

"Sammy! Sammy, where are you?"

At first, the young hunter thought the unfamiliar voice, a woman's, was calling for him. Then he saw the dog twitch his ears and cock his head.

"Sammy! Here, boy! Samson, you better get your butt back here! I'm not chasing you all over creation!" The dog's unseen owner threatened though her tone was lighthearted.

"Looks like you better go, boy," Sam mumbled.

The dog looked over his shoulder, then back at teenager, whining.

"Go on. I-I'm okay."

Sam watched as the dog turned and trotted away, disappearing in the bushes to search out his sweet-voiced owner. Gathering his strength, the youngest Winchester stood, his legs quaking. He wiped at the blood and snot running from his nose and wiped his soiled hand on the leg of his jeans. Sam stood swaying for a few seconds before finally moving forward to slowly and painfully gather his scattered books and papers, unwilling to leave them strewn about the empty field. By the time he was done, he wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and give in to the pain and dizziness. Sam felt tears sting his eyes when he thought about the walk ahead of him.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Because of his staggering gait, it took Sam twice as long as it normally would have to walk home, but he eventually arrived at the little rundown house they rented on McKinney Street. Sam was relieved to see the driveway empty, indicating Dean had yet to get home. He was reluctant, and oddly scared, for his brother to see him like this. Irrational or not, he felt responsible for what had happened. He felt scrawny and weak. And stupid for defying orders and taking that shortcut.

Walking as quickly as his battered body would allow, Sam unlocked the front door, and after dropping his bedraggled books and dirty papers on the kitchen table without a second thought, he hurried to his bedroom—closing and locking the door behind him. Once inside this sanctuary, Sam gingerly laid down on his bed, giving in to the throbbing pain assaulting his body, giving in—reluctantly—to the tears he'd kept at bay all the way home.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean pulled into the driveway and parked the Impala. It was 5:30 p.m., a bit later than he usually got home, but Planet Pizza had been busy tonight. Grabbing their still-hot pizza and a six-pack of Coca-Cola off the passenger seat, he slipped out of the car and rushed for the house, his stomach growling at the enticing smell of food. To be honest, at 17, his stomach seemed to always be growling with hunger whether there was enticing food around to tempt it or not.

After crossing the threshold, Dean called out, "Sam! I've got dinner. Come and eat while it's hot!" He went to put the pizza on the table and noticed Sam's books and papers strewn haphazardly across its surface. Frowning at this unusual occurrence, the older teen gathered everything up in a pile and moved it all to the counter, replacing it all with their dinner. He opened the pizza box and grabbed a slice, biting into the cheese, pepperoni, and onions with gusto. After a second bite, the slice was almost gone. Realizing he had yet to hear from his little brother, Dean swigged a drink of Coke, belched softly from the carbonation, and yelled, "Sam! C'mon, man. I brought pizza! Get your ass out here and eat."

A chill skittered up his spine when there was still no response from Sam. Dropping what was left of his slice of pizza on the table, Dean hurried to the bedroom he shared with his brother. His alarm grew when he turned the knob and discovered the door was locked. Dean made a fist and knocked.

"Sam? Hey, Sammy—you sick or something?"

Sam heard his brother knocking and calling out for him. He wanted to respond but just didn't have the energy so he stayed quiet and remained lying on his side, facing the wall. A minute or so later, he heard the door open. He'd known all along that a locked door would never keep Dean out of the room if he wanted in.

"Why didn't you answer me, huh? You sick, bro?"

"N-No," Sam rasped.

Brotherly intuition on full alert now, Dean moved forward until he stood right at the side of Sam's twin bed.

"What's wrong?"

"N-Nuthin'."

"Sam . . ." Dean growled, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with his little brother.

Knowing there was no getting out of this, Sam uncurled his aching body and rolled over, groaning as every cut and bruise screamed in protest. His ribs, too, screeched at the movement.

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Dean when he saw the condition his younger sibling was in. "Sam, what the HELL happened to you?!"

Sam flinched at Dean's yell.

"I-I-I . . ." To his dismay, Sam felt tears brim in his eyes and spill over.

Sinking down on the edge of the bed, Dean said, "Hey, it's okay. Just tell me what happened."

"I-I was walking h-home. Got jumped."

"By who?"

"I took . . . I took the shortcut, Dean. It's my fault. I h-had a headache and just—"

"Uh uh. It's not your fault, kiddo. Even if you did take that damned shortcut. Who beat the shit out of you?"

"T-Todd Trammel. But Marcus B-Bent was with him."

Dean's expression grew even grimmer than it had been. He was familiar with both of those bullies even though they were a couple of years younger than he.

Wiping at his wet cheeks, Sam said, "He—Dean—he accused me of stealing m-money from him. And keying his car. I swear—I swear I didn't do anything!"

"Ahh, Sammy, I believe you. You don't have it in you to do anything like that."

Sam started to sit up and gasped, stopping mid-move.

"Hey, take it easy," murmured Dean, gently helping his brother sit up, propping pillows behind his back. "Let's get you cleaned and fixed up."

Dean left the room, returning a few minutes later with their extensive first aid kit as well as a pan of warm water and a wash cloth. He helped Sam get his shirt off and growled angrily when he saw the numerous bruises covering Sam's chest and back. It was when he spied the handprints around his brother's neck that his eyes went deadly flat.

"He choked you?"

"Uh huh. But this dog—named Sammy—saved me."

Deciding that was a story left for later, Dean started to wipe away the blood, sweat, and grime covering Sam's torso and face. Spying the glob of something sticky in Sam's bangs, he said, "What the hell is that in your hair?"

"He . . . uh . . . Todd . . . spit on me."

Dean's fist clenched tightly around the washcloth, his knuckles showing white.

As he continued to clean him up, Dean evaluated his brother's injuries. "I think your ribs are just bruised, not cracked or broken. But they're gonna hurt for a while. Not much I can do for that massive shiner you're sporting. Most of the cuts are superficial. But I do have to stitch up that split lip or it's never gonna heal."

_From the looks of it, you're lucky you're not heading to the hospital, little bro._

His little brother sighed in defeat.

Dean cleaned the spit out of Sam's hair and tossed the dirty washcloth into the pan of cooling water.

He snatched up the small white plastic bottle from the first aid kit. "Sorry. Here, take these." Dean held out two pain pills and a glass of water.

Sam did as he was told, dribbling a good portion of the water down his chin since his fat lip got in the way.

Dean quickly loaded the suturing needle and made short work of putting four stitches in Sam's busted lip. He hated adding to his sibling's pain and was relieved that only four stitches had been required.

"Done." He looked at Sam, who blinked blearily at him.

Pain and stress were taking their toll, and Sam was ready to crash. "T-Tired."

"You should eat something. Though I guess that pizza I brought is out."

"Na hungry," mumbled Sam. His growling stomach immediately belied his words.

"C'mon, Sam. How about some soup? I think we have a can or two around here."

Sam reluctantly nodded, not even remotely interested in food.

It didn't stop Dean though, and he returned ten minutes later with a mug of warm tomato soup. "At least drink some of this. Then you can sleep."

The youngest Winchester took the mug and sipped at the soup, more to get Dean off his case than anything else. He managed to get about half of it down before he gave up. Sam handed the mug back to Dean, who'd been watching him like a hawk. He was surprised to hear his brother suddenly laugh.

"Wha's so funny?" his eyes closed to half mast.

"Aww, I was just thinking—I wish we were gonna be here to see ol' Toddy's face when you finally hit your growth spurt. You're gonna be freakin' huge."

"How da you know?"

"Well, I'm tall, Dad's tall, and you're all gangly arms and legs. Not to mention you have seriously gigantic feet. So chances are you're gonna be as tall as me at least."

"Oh. Good. Wish we were gonna be here too then." Sam's eyes closed completely and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Later that night, Dean left the house with two particular destinations in mind. He returned a little more than an hour later. Stepping into the bedroom, Dean slid his knife under his pillow with a smile. Todd Trammel and Marcus Bent wouldn't be bothering his brother again—ever. And the beauty of it was, he hadn't had to lay a finger on either one of them. A little "friendly" advice had Marcus confessing all—he'd stolen Todd's money and keyed his car for the sole purpose of blaming it on Sam. Revenge for some imagined slight. Duly recorded on a mini tape recorder, Dean had then paid a "friendly" visit to Todd. By the time the elder Winchester had left Todd, the two had come to a certain mutual agreement. All in all, Dean called the night a success.

He checked on Sam, rousing him long enough to get two more pain pills on board before shutting off the light and climbing into bed. Dean had just gotten comfortable, closed his eyes, and was listening to his brother breathing when a disturbing thought wound its way through his head.

He'd told Sam that he'd eventually be at least as tall as Dean was himself, which was 6' 1". But what if his brother actually ended up taller than him?

_Nah, not gonna happen. No way. The universe just wouldn't be that cruel._

_**xxxx Fini xxxx**_


End file.
